


The Purple Balloon

by CarmillaCarmine



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: All Saints' Day, Balloons, Cemetery, Fic Graveyard, John is a Bit Not Good, M/M, Sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-01
Updated: 2019-11-01
Packaged: 2021-01-16 09:15:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 879
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21268637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CarmillaCarmine/pseuds/CarmillaCarmine
Summary: John was used to cemeteries, so he walked confidently and with purpose, even if he was a broken man inside...Written for All Saints' Day - 1st November.





	The Purple Balloon

"What colour? … Sir? What colour would you like this time?" The pleasant voice grew louder, finally reaching John even though he stood close.

"Oh! Hmmm... Purple please." John came back from a dark place in his head to the present. He picked a different colour every few days and purple seemed to be what his aching heart wanted today. "And please, call me John." He offered a small smile that held no mirth to the older lady at the balloon stand in the park. She smiled back, a little sadly, as she knew the reason behind John's purchase and why he was a frequent customer. He had broken down once and cried, right there in the middle of the park during one of the hardest days. That’s when he had told her the story, making her cry with him. Those tougher days came in waves since the awful evening that was supposed to be so joyous. At times, he thought his life was normal, that he was doing well and was almost happy. Other times, he cried himself to sleep with body-shaking sobs. However, since that horrible day, exactly one year ago to the day, he hadn't been alone.

John was used to cemeteries, so he walked confidently and with purpose, even if he was a broken man inside. He had spent two years visiting Sherlock's grave before, and now he was a frequent visitor again.

"I love you," he whispered to the grass in front of the headstone he had picked out himself. "Even if I didn't get to know you properly." His voice broke at the last word and he fell silent, trying to swallow the lump in his throat. With what seemed to be extraordinary strength and determination, he attached the balloon to a small crack in the stone that lay above his wife and still-born daughter. Then he moved the heavy vase to hold the string in place.

The wind blew on the balloon, making it sway in the air, looking despicably cheerful.

John wanted to scream, kick and bang his fists on the ground, but he had done plenty of that over time, leaving behind a more silent grief. The streaks of wetness on his cheeks were quickly growing cold where he hadn't bothered to brush them away, just blinked to clear his vision. He put a hand on the light grey marble as a larger but gentle hand squeezed his shoulder in comfort. 

Sherlock.

He had left him to grieve by himself once, but the second time John's world had crumbled, Sherlock had been there for him. 

The touch disappeared and a set of six pale pink roses were carefully placed in the vase. Sherlock repositioned them several times, to make them look perfect even if the dead wouldn't see them. Or would they? John wasn't sure anymore. 

The only constant that remained in his life was the man who looked as heartbroken as John felt. He knew Sherlock was not grieving for Mary as much as for Rosie. To everyone’s utter astonishment, the madman had waited for the birth with a copious amount of excitement. 

One day, when Mary was no more than 5 months pregnant, John had visited 221B to find that Sherlock had redecorated John's old bedroom. There had been a cot with lovely bedding and a mobile with black and white shapes of animals. Sherlock had told him it was prompted by an article he had read which said that during the first three months, the baby would only see black white and grey. A purple velveteen rabbit had sat on the rocking chair and after an inquiring look from John, Sherlock admitted it was identical to the one he had owned himself as a child. From then on, purple became Rosie’s colour in John’s mind. Pale lavender wallpaper had adorned the walls with additions of several framed posters, one of which had been a smaller version of the periodic table that hung in Sherlock's bedroom. There had been books on the newly acquired mahogany shelves. When John had picked one of them up, he had read the title out loud: "Good Night Stories for Rebel Girls". 

"She should learn about all those brilliant women as soon as possible before she becomes one herself." The words Sherlock had spoken had warmed John's heart. In all honesty, since that moment, Sherlock had been warming it ceaselessly. John had never had the heart to change anything in the room and he found himself visiting it from time to time after he had moved back to 221B.

John looked at the grave once more and let his head hang. The tall figure next to him did the same and John reached with his right hand to search for him. Sherlock's hand was cold in his but it still made him feel that he was not alone in his grief and in this world. They intertwined their fingers and stood in silence, both lost in their own thoughts. 

As the drizzle turned to rain and John felt a shiver creeping up his spine, he squeezed the hand still holding his.

"Take me home, Sherlock," he said with the voice of a broken man who still hadn’t lost hope for a life worth living.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Take Me Home](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21269810) by [MiladyPheonix](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MiladyPheonix/pseuds/MiladyPheonix)
  * [Take Me Home](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21269810) by [MiladyPheonix](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MiladyPheonix/pseuds/MiladyPheonix)


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